


Draco Malfoy's Seven Years After

by Chippier



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chippier/pseuds/Chippier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy, who struggles in his reasons to still live, while seeing them snatched from him again and again, is troubled to see Potter helping him. Harry Potter, on the other hand, is trying to find himself in a new world and a new life; he'd never foreseen that one blonde is going to be an important part of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Draco

** Draco Malfoy’s Seven Years After **

**PART ONE: Draco**

_August 1997_

Seven years ago, a letter that had brought great happiness to Draco arrived at the Manor. He was a little boy, then, blind to the choices he would have to make, the things he would go through, and the painful lessons he would have to learn. On that day, he was an eleven-year-old thinking that the future was bright, especially for him; his dreams could come true, if only he worked for them hard.

Seven years later, he received another letter. With trembling hands, he opened it as an eighteen-year-old, a survivor from the losing side of a war, persona non grata in society’s eyes, and someone who would never be the same again. He was a marked man, and he knew that the future, if he still had a _right_ for it, was scary and bleak; his dreams, no matter how much he would delude himself sometimes or let himself think if he _just worked hard enough_ , would remain as dreams.

If he could, he would go back. He would warn himself of the things to come, of the wrong choices he mustn’t make, and of the prejudices he should shed. He couldn’t though, and here was _it_. For the second time in his life, he held in his hands another letter from Hogwarts.

_…would be our sincerest pleasure to welcome you again for an Eight Year in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_

This time, it didn’t bring him excitement and happiness. He should have been grateful for the chance to study and take his NEWTs. However, if there was one thing that he promised to himself after the war, it was to be entirely honest and true to himself. He would no longer deny the opinions he thought, or the emotions that he felt. And the truth was, right now, the sheet of parchment made him scared.

Draco wanted to go back to school and prove himself. He wanted to start living for himself for once. But Hogwarts meant meeting people who survived the war, who knew him and hated him, who _blamed_ him from everything that happened, and who would never forgive him. He did not want to face them; given the chance, he would not want to face _anyone_ at all.

He feared that if they started hexing at him, insulting him, and hurting him, he wouldn’t stop them at _all,_ because in a way, they were right. He feared what he believed: that they were blameless, and he was _not_.

≈≈≈

It was a week after he received the letter that Draco received a most unusual guest. He was tending his mother’s garden—the one she would have to look at when drinking her tea in the sun room. It was his first time doing such, but he did not mind. He liked to imagine that even if the Ministry hadn’t freed the Manor’s elves, he’d have tried to learn new hobbies. Household chores like gardening and cleaning rooms for his mother were a few of them.

He was pulling out the weeds by hand from the patch of lilies, when his mother cleared her throat behind him. He turned around, not bothering to stand up. The last four months that he and his mother had spent together at the Manor consisted of a few late night conversations, some involving his need for less pretension and a new way of life. Narcissa Malfoy had only stood up and enveloped him in her arms. It left no doubt about her agreement.

“Mother,” he said, slightly smiling at how good she looked out on the sun. Her braided platinum blonde hair and pale blue summer robes made her look almost ethereal beneath a clear, blue sky.

“Draco, you have a guest,” she replied. She looked displeased.

“Oh.” Draco gulped. He had no idea if someone relevant would want to visit him in the middle of the afternoon, only two months shy after the end of the war. It wasn’t that Aurors were irrelevant guests, but they hardly gave friendly visits at all. By the look of displeasure of his Mother, however, he knew it wasn’t just an Auror.

Who could it be?

“I… It looks urgent, Mother; I wouldn’t change anymore,” he said quietly, removing his wide-brimmed hat and wiping the sweat from his forehead. His grandparents were rolling in their graves for sure with how he was keeping himself. “Are they waiting in the sitting room?”

The edges of his mother’s eyes softened, and she reached out to touch his face, only to withdraw her hand. When she spoke, it was with a gentler tone, no longer displeased—just resigned. “I suggest that you freshen yourself up, regardless, Draco. I will be entertaining your guest for you for a while in the sitting room.”

She leaves him, and Draco, his Apparation license revoked, made his way to his rooms.

≈≈≈

“…my son, Draco, is still trying to find himself in this new world. I ask that you be more understanding and compassionate of my son—“ his mother was saying. Draco stopped in front of the crack in the door of the sitting room, eavesdropping.

“I’m not here to judge him or take revenge, Mrs. Malfoy—“

Draco froze in front of the door. His heart and lungs felt like ice, and he couldn’t breathe. What did Potter want from him? The war was over. Draco hadn’t asked for his wand back; better it stayed with Potter, than the Ministry, was what he thought. He knew that he was horrible to the other man, but Draco had fervently hoped that Potter would be so elated with killing the Dark Lord that he would no longer have time for Draco.

He had hoped that the last they had anything to do with one another was at the Great Hall, after Voldemort’s death, their shoulders brushing as they passed by one another. Draco was leaving then, and Potter hadn’t paid attention to him. He could still feel the relief when he wasn’t confronted by the hero.

Now, it felt as distant as a dream, like many other things. His hands were clammy and cold; the claws of dread were sinking into the muscles of his legs, making him unable to move. Was Potter here to collect his life debt? He _did_ save Draco’s life. He also kept him from any kind of arrest or punishment during the trials.

Draco hadn’t the chance to talk to him. After the trials, Potter was swallowed by a sea of reporters, and Draco had to get to the Ministry’s holding cells to see his father one last time. Lucius Malfoy had accepted his fate, twelve years in Azkaban.

“Draco, come in. You’ve been standing there for quite so long,” he heard her Mother sigh. It was fond, as if he was a five-year-old overeating on sweets again, and it made him blush.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he replies, pushing the door open and stepping inside, his eyes on his Mother. “I was just… very surprised, that is all.” In a burst of courage, his eyes sought Harry Potter in their sitting room.

He was sitting in a chair opposite his mother’s, wearing the Muggle button-down shirt and jeans that he was so very fond of. His hair still made him look like he’d just gotten out of bed. The glasses, though—the big, round spectacles that made Potter look like a child—were gone. Without the hideous obstruction, Draco could see the lush grasslands of the Manor grounds during summer in Harry Potter’s eyes.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, not stiffly, not contemptuously. This surprised Draco, snapping him from his mind’s wanderings, and back to the reality of the curious visit. Potter said his name like he would have said “Quidditch” or “phoenix;” the tone was neutral, as if _Malfoy_ had never been tasked to kill Dumbledore, never bore the Dark Mark, or never tormented the Hope of the wizarding world at school.

Unable to answer yet, he just gave him a nod, and went to sit beside his mother. His mother gave him a cup of tea that he accepted with a polite smile. When he had to look at Potter again, however, his face felt stiff once more.

“Mr. Potter wanted to talk about a few important things to you, Draco,” his mother—bless her—said, noticing that he was still too unsettled to talk.

“Important?” he repeated, flicking his gaze at Potter before resting it on his mother. “What do you mean by ‘important,’ Mother?”

“So important, Draco, that Mr. Potter opted to visit you here at the Manor at the Ministry’s permission,” his mother replied, not really answering his question.

He could feel his spine snapping straight at the answer, though. He wouldn’t feel surprised if he actually _saw_ the tension bleeding out of him in fumes. He glared down at his teacup, still full of his mother’s delicately brewed tea; it was a pity he couldn’t enjoy it. “Figures it would be something about the Ministry,” he muttered under his breath. He had thought and dreaded about it, of course. There was no way that the wizarding world would let him off without retribution.

“Draco, you’re no longer a child. Don’t mumble,” his mother chided, and he found himself blushing again. Being scolded like a kid by his mother in front of Potter—who would have thought? His mother continued, “I also think that Mr. Potter has a right to explain _to_ you what he came here for.”

“And you can actually speak to me, you know, instead of talking as if I’m not here,” Potter’s voice said opposite them. Draco looked at him; the git was smirking, because of course he knew that Draco was not the same anymore. It was a different kind of different—not better, but he wasn’t the old Draco Malfoy.

“If you’re here to collect life debts—“

“No, I’m not,” Potter cut him off. He looked annoyed. “We’re even, Malfoy. You helped win the war, how many times do I have to repeat that? I saved your life, because it was something anyone _should_ have done.” He did not say that it was anyone would have done, and Draco was glad that he did not deny that other people would have left him in the burning Room of Hidden Things.

Potter pinned him with a serious look. “Whatever kind of person you have been thinking me to be, Malfoy, I’m no longer that. I… I acknowledge that the war changed all of us, like I know that you’re not who you used to be.”

At the corner of his eye, Draco saw his mother’s lips curl into a small, pleased smile.

Draco did not know what to say to Potter’s speech, so he filed it away for later, and said, “Why are you here, then?”

Potter threw a beseeching look at his mother, who gave a small nod. She stood up; Draco had the urge to pull her down and keep him beside him. “I’ll leave the two of you to talk then, Mr. Potter, Draco. I will be preparing dinner.” To Draco’s horror, his mother added, “Do think about dining with us, Mr. Potter.”

She left, and with her, it seemed, went all of Draco’s abilities in starting conversations. He cleared his throat at the same time Potter did, and this time, he could not contain the blush of embarrassment that spread across his cheeks. He wanted to groan, leave, or just stare at the ceiling exasperatedly; unfortunately, he was a Malfoy and he had to sit through this, no matter how nervous he felt being alone in the same room with Potter.

Potter cleared his throat again, and said, “So…”

“Potter, just get to it,” Draco sighed, not liking how tired and resigned he sounded.

Potter gave him an indecipherable look, before speaking. “I’m here because I plan to give you back your wand.”

“My wand?” Draco echoed incredulously. He arched an eyebrow when Potter pulled his wand out from a dark-colored pouch. At the sight of the hawthorn wand, Draco’s heart ached and his fingers itched to reach out and caress it. It didn’t matter, however, what Potter wanted to do; Draco was no longer entitled to _that_ wand. “Potter, it’s rather useless, don’t you think? The moment the Ministry finds out that I’m in possession of a fully functional wand, they would be here to confiscate it in the blink of an eye.”

“Well, I actually had another agenda for being here. I wouldn’t give back your wand without satisfying that one first.” Potter swished the hawthorn wand so green and silver sparks flew from it. Jealousy flared in Draco’s chest while watching it.

“That other one being?” he asked, forcing himself to meet Potter’s eyes.

“You accept the invitation for Eight Year in Hogwarts,” Potter answered simply—as if it was _that_ simple. Or easy. Draco wanted to wring the hero’s neck for implying that Draco could decide to do that quickly, that the matter was as simple for him just because it was for the Savior. “The Ministry has agreed to allow you keep your wand for your education. If you’re able to maintain commendable behavior during the school year, you’re free to keep it for the rest of your life.”

Draco suddenly felt tired. Of course, there will always be conditions, and they were never going to be simple or kind, ever since he took the Mark. “Potter, if you haven’t been informed yet, I’ve specifically submitted my letter of refusal to Hogwarts—“

“Of course, I know that, Malfoy,” Potter snapped annoyingly. “For what reason do you think I would be here other than to convince you to change your mind? I don’t understand why you would refuse—“

“Someone like you can never understand someone like me—“ Draco replied heatedly, insulted that the _Great Harry Potter_ would think that he was that simple-minded. He should have known, of course.

“Like what, Malfoy? What am I like? And what are you like?” Potter retorted heatedly, and Draco lost his nerve.

“Fuck you, Potter! _Fuck you,_ ” he hissed, his hand clenching around the fragile teacup. “You dare ask me those questions? Well, if the hare-brained Golden Boy cannot understand, I will spell it out clearly. You’re the Hero, Potter, and I’m the Death Eater. People like you don’t get shunned by society. People like you don’t have to hide away, because you will be welcomed _anywhere_. People like _me_ , on the other hand, don’t have it all bright and hopeful.

“People like me take whatever they could because we know that whatever bad we could receive, we deserve. But we are not so stupid to think that in going back to _school_ will make people accept us so readily. A Savior’s good opinion of us will never save us from the wands of people who want revenge, Potter. Unlike you, people don’t think that life is all about forgiving and moving on. That’s just scratching the surface of how different the two of us are.”

They were glaring at each other now. Draco’s voice had been trembling at the end of his rant, his chest was heaving with heavy breathing, and he had to stop. He wanted to hex Potter, make him feel the pain and regret and shame that he felt; that was the only way the stupid Gryffindor would understand. Unlike him, they had it easy. All the suffering and remorse and self-deprecation that Draco was feeling will only ever be a theory in his head, not reality.

“I’m not your charity case, Potter. You can stop being kind to me. You can move on with your life and do whatever you want. I refuse to be another pedestal for your name,” Draco whispered furiously. He glared at the wall above Potter’s head.

“You think I’m doing this for fame?” Potter said; it was so full of emotion that Draco had to look at him. What he saw made his breath catch. His eyes were intense and sincere, frustrated and impatient, and… understanding and tired. No pair of eyes should be able to express those many emotions by simply _staring_. “I’m doing this, Malfoy, because Dumbledore wanted to give you a chance. He believed in you. I don’t need another deed attributed to the Great Harry Potter. In fact, I would be grateful if you mentioned none of this to anyone. But Dumbledore—and I—would regret that you would have refused another chance being offered to you again.”

Draco suddenly feels cold. Afraid that he would drop his mother’s cup, he set it shakily on the table before him. “Y-you were there,” he whispered, feeling more terrible about that night in the Astronomy Tower. That was the pinnacle of his cowardice, his stupidity, his uselessness as a human being.

“Dumbledore believed in your soul, and he would have offered that chance again and again and _again_ , like he would have done to any student in any situation,” Potter replied softly. When Draco met his eyes again, he felt a little like kinship towards his schoolmate. They’ve shared a significant moment up at the tower. That night, Draco lost the chance and the only kindness that had been offered to him because of his cowardice. Potter, on the other hand, lost his mentor and friend, because he was unable to do anything about it. He had to fight a bigger war.

But Draco refused to attribute more meanings to the feeling.

He looked out the window of the sitting room. He wondered if Dumbledore would have been the one in this room if he was alive. He wondered if he was insane for even considering the things Potter was telling him. Dumbledore would have believed in him, yes, but the old headmaster was not like most people. Where he would have smiled, forgiven, and helped at Draco after everything, people would have wished him dead.

He was clearly insane, for thinking about the possibilities of being accepted in an apprenticeship for a Masters in Potions in another country if he were to take his NEWTs.

“I can’t take your invitation right now, Potter,” he answered weakly, still not looking at the other man. He was a different person. Malfoy or not, he could show his uncertainty whenever and whomever he chose to.

“But you’ll think about it, yeah? There’s still a month before the terms starts,” he heard Potter say, and it’s filled with what suspiciously sounded like hope. It was probably just Draco’s imagination, so he squashes the suspicion.

“Potter, why are you doing this?” he asked wearily.

“It’s what Dumbledore would have done.” Then, Potter did something that Draco wouldn’t have thought he would in a hundred years. The Savior of the Wizarding World stood up, walked around the table towards him, and held out his hand. “And this is something I want to do. I propose a truce. Do you accept it, Draco Malfoy?”

Up close… up close Harry Potter’s friendly face, Draco’s breath caught in his throat. It was the first time since the war that anyone has looked at him like another human being. When Voldemort was alive, he was nothing as an accessory, the expense for sadistic entertainment. After the war, he was looked down on as scum, something hateful, disgusting, and possibly contagious.

Now, though… Now, he felt like he was _just_ Draco. It felt liberating, as if it had been a long time since his mind was allowed to breathe and think that way, but he did not let himself put so much hope into it. He still had enough self-control to remind himself nothing has changed at all in the grand scheme of things. This was just Potter, offering a truce; Potter, who would likely get rid of him, soon.

He took Potter’s hand, and he ignored how symbolic the moment was. He tried not to think about that insignificant, but somehow relevant, handshake, delayed for seven years. “I accept.”

Harry Potter smiled at him. Draco didn’t. Not yet, anyway. But the hero didn’t seem to mind.

≈≈≈

Two days after, Harry Potter came back to the Manor. Draco was once again tending the lilies in his mother’s garden when the hero made his presence known by stooping beside Draco and started pulling out weeds. Draco tried his best not to let his surprise show. To have the Savior of the Wizarding World, the one who just offered him a truce, digging his hands into the dirt beside him was very surreal.

“I used to garden when I was a child, too,” Potter said quietly, getting the shears from a big wicker basket, and starting to cut away the dried branches and leaves. The statement made Draco _so_ very curious, but he stopped himself from asking anything. He and Potter weren’t _friends._ They could never be. Persona non grata of the wizarding world and the Savior just didn’t _mix_. They’d cancel each other or explode.

He didn’t understand why Potter was doing these things. What was the _git_ trying to prove? Hadn’t he proven his importance, benevolence, and kindness enough? Why would he come back to the Manor? The questions burned in his mind, and he was itching to wrestle the answers from Potter.

“Potter, you’re here, because?” Draco sighed. When it came to Potter, he had no fight left.

“You haven’t sent your confirmation of acceptance to Hogwarts, yet,” the man simply replied, looking at Draco steadily with his overwhelmingly green eyes. Potter looked as if he really was going to listen to every word that Draco was going to say. He looked _interested_ and it was baffling.

“It’s just been two days, Potter. Unlike some people, I don’t want to jump into decisions that might as well potentially lead me to my murder,” _even_ _if, figuratively, I_ am _good as dead,_ he added in his mind. The truth was that he did not think about Potter’s offer at all; the man could take his wand; even if it was hard to let go, Draco didn’t think he was ready for the jump Potter wanted him to take.

This was a jump he had to make alone; he was still scared.

So he didn’t think at all. He buried himself in housework and reading books, and ignored his mother’s reproachful and worried gazes. Occasionally, he would find himself going back to the conversation with Potter and thinking about second chances and deservingness, but he would squash any hope that dared to flare. He kept on telling himself that this was good. The Manor was good and safe, and he would rather be here and keep his Mother company. It was better than endangering her further beneath the eyes of society if he chose to go back to school again and thus provoke hostility.

“Well, then,” Potter said calmly, after taking a deep breath, “I’m here to still convince you to go back to Hogwarts.” He brushed his fingertips against the white blossoms so gently it was almost hypnotic.

Draco removed his eyes and from Potter’s fingers and fixed them on the ground. He gritted his teeth. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Am I your boredom fix right now, Potter? I assure you, you won’t be getting any duels from me anymore.”

Potter raised his eyebrows. “I don’t want to duel with you, Malfoy. Merlin, what gave you the idea?”

 _You. You and your annoying, inexplicable presence._ Draco could barely hold in from shouting in frustration. Really, he had better things to do than be interested in stupid Potter. “Don’t you have a girlfriend? Why don’t you spend time with her?”

A grimace briefly grazed Potter’s face and Draco had to raise his eyebrows at that. The hero scratched the back of his neck, smearing dirt on the pale skin that Draco suddenly wanted to swat away. Potter mumbled something, immediately distracting him from the urge.

“Potter, what did you say?” he asked exasperatedly.

“Oh,” Potter said, pink tinting his cheeks. “I said that Ginny was in the Burrow and I’m sort of… but _not really_ … avoiding her.”

“Why?” It was cute to see the Golden Boy so flustered, but Draco would never admit that. He was flustered too at hearing Potter say something personal—he didn’t quite know what to do in this new territory they have crossed.

Potter sighed and dropped on his back on the dirty ground. Draco, no matter how much he had been spending his time outdoors and getting his hands filled with soil, couldn’t help but grimace at the state his clothes would be in. For a moment, nobody said anything; Potter was looking at the clear, blue sky with his bright green eyes, and Draco was looking at him. The latter would have said he was waiting for the former to say something, but the truth was that he was simply _staring_.

Forbidden, he started wondering if things between them would have been like this if Potter accepted his hand seven years ago. He wondered if they would have had if he had switched sides before sixth year, before he started getting in too deep into the muck his Father had set up for them. He wondered if what he would have done if he had seen Potter peaceful like this earlier, and more frequently.

Draco slashed those thoughts away, not only because they were useless, but also because they were weeds, destroying the simple acceptance he had forged in himself during the few weeks after the war. If there ever were second chances for him, they were not the ones in fairy tales that would make things better for him. They were the ones that give him another chance to be alive and to stay at the Manor

Potter looked at him through the corner of his eyes and Draco arched an eyebrow at him. Then the Golden Boy said seriously, “Ginny isn’t my girlfriend, but it seems like I’m the only one who knows it.”

Draco snorted. “How about the Weasel and his girlfriend?”

Potter frowned at the nicknames, but didn’t comment on them. “They just assumed that Gin and I have gotten back together. But they’re in Australia right now, trying to find ‘Mione’s parents and bring their memories back.”

Draco just nodded, not understanding what happened to the Know-It-All’s parents and their memories, but Potter kept on talking about how ashamed he was when the Mother Weasel fawned over him and the Weaslette, or how the rags kept on writing about the two of them. He just listened, unhesitantly basking in the peace that Potter’s deep voice brought him, and just the quiet afternoon in itself.

 ≈≈≈

“Draco, I can see that you and Mr. Potter are becoming friends,” his mother said, while they were spending the time after dinner in the family library. Narcissa Malfoy was doing some embroidery, an activity, Draco is pleased to see, that she had taken up once more after dropping it when the war began.

He, on the other hand, had been indexing the Manor’s Potions books collection, since the list had been outdated and the new books had to be indexed too. However, he found himself blushing furiously at his mother’s utterly unexpected statement.

How could Draco not blush? Harry Potter had visited frequently visited Draco for the past week. At first, it was under the guise of convincing him to send a letter of acceptance to Hogwarts; however, as the days progressed and visits recurred with Potter bringing stories that made both of them laugh, even Draco could no longer deny to himself they’d enjoyed one another’s company.

He cleared his throat and looked at his leather-bound Potions journal open before him. He wasn’t rereading the list of topics he had jotted down in emerald green ink, though. He was contemplating about the piece of folded parchment he’d tucked between the pages. He had written it after a particularly enjoyable afternoon with the Golden Boy. Potter brought his Firebolt and helped him collect Potions ingredients in the forests surrounding the Manor.

The euphoria that lit up inside Draco had been so strong that it had given him strength, in a moment’s daydreaming, to write an acceptance letter to Hogwarts. Though it wasn’t enough encouragement to make the split-second decision to send it with his eagle owl, he hadn’t destroyed or thrown it away.

He decided to allow himself this—dreaming that he could have afternoons spent as enjoyably as the ones before with a friend, with himself as _just_ Draco, in Hogwarts. Because Potter would be there with him. Draco could dream, but they were just dreams. He had resigned himself to that fact.

“Draco.”

He snapped out of his reveries and cleared his throat once more. “Yes, Mother?”

His mother had moved closer to his desk, and had put her delicate hand on the edge. There were creases in the corners of her eyes as she studied him. “Are you alright?”

He nodded—too many times to be befitting for a Malfoy, but he didn’t care. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, Mother.”

“I’m glad that you have Harry as a confidant and companion, my love,” his mother said, her hand migrating to his shoulder. Draco sagged in his mother’s touch; he never realized that he was already too tired, emotionally and physically. “But if you find yourself unable to talk about certain things to him, remember that your Mother is here for you, Draco.”

A thought, unbidden, but staggering in its strength, crashed through Draco’s mind and settled in his chest. _I have two people for me in my life._ Thinking that Potter was his friend and was for him was probably presumptuous, but it refused to leave. The hope and courage it had brought Draco didn’t flicker.

His mother made to move away, but suddenly, he blurted out, “Mother… Mother if… if, in a bout of insanity, I decided to finish my education, how would you feel?”

The smile on Narcissa Malfoy’s face was unlike anyone had seen during the years of the war, and it could have lit up the room and Draco’s life. “I would be very proud of you, son. So very proud. I just want you to do what makes you happy.”

Draco flushed under his mother’s doting gaze. She smoothed her hand between his shoulder blades.

“Also, you do not have to worry about me being alone. Harry had been telling me how my sister’s desire for a reunion. I’m just waiting for an invitation for tea to arrive.”

Draco briefly wondered when Mr.Potter had become _Harry_ to his mother, but he didn’t protest. It sounded natural, what with the time Potter spent with them.

His mother left him to his thoughts.

It was easy for him to think that things could be easy. That they could change that smoothly for him. It was easy to feel hope and courage when he hadn’t had gotten out into society for the past month. It had only been Potter, his mother, and the house-elves who were his company, and he’d been undeniably drawn into Potter’s perspective of life.

But Potter was not like other people and he would not be beside Draco all the time. It was bittersweet, how he could think like this, as if Potter was _his_. Draco was still a Death Eater, though, and he didn’t dare expect he could clamor for the hero’s attention, like the rest of the world did.

He took the letter tucked in his Potions journal and ripped it to pieces.

It didn’t matter that Potter treated him like a normal person. It didn’t matter whether or not Potter considered him as a friend. It didn’t matter if Potter was strong and acted like he would protect and stand by Draco in a heartbeat. It didn’t matter that the two of them had _bared_ small, but treasured, portions of their hearts to each other in just a few weeks.

There was too much history between the two of them, and it was time for Draco to stomp on any hopes that had been flourishing in his chest, before they took root deeply. An earlier realization was better than a very painful awakening from a faraway dream later on.

≈≈≈

The next day, Potter came. He was seething.

Draco couldn’t have missed it, after being at the receiving end of that rage a couple of times in the last years. Wild magic was seeping out of the man’s aura. Draco could actually feel the static of Potter’s magic prickling at his skin when they walked towards the forest near the Manor. The man had asked to be accompanied there.

Then, Potter asked him to transfigure rocks into large objects. Draco positively jumped when, at the fifth statue he had transfigured, Potter started casting hexes and curses on them. He flinched from the shards flying around the clearing; he was so startled and confused that he could have imagined the way Potter’s expression softened towards him.

“Just keep going, Draco,” he said, and the Slytherin’s heart stuttered a bit, the way it had since the first time Potter had said his _first_ name. Potter’s voice sounded fond and affectionate when his name left those lips, and Draco thought that it was going to be one of the greatest of life for him.

But Potter obviously still needed an outlet for all the rage that something happened made him feel, so Draco kept transfiguring little stones into statues and furniture. The Golden Boy blasted them all, reduced them into very little shards with such intensity and concentration that Draco would have cowered. He didn’t, though, because a few moments ago, he felt tingling warmth spread across his skin and knew that Potter had took time to cast a Body-Specific Shield Charm on him.

It made his heart stutter once more, and Draco wondered if there would be a day when Potter would stop doing things that made Draco wonder, fluster, and startle.

≈≈≈

About an hour of Transfiguration and destruction later, Potter and Draco were lying on their backs on the clearing. “I’m ready to talk about it,” Potter said, after his breaths had steadied.

“Get to it then,” Draco muttered, lying on his side, facing Potter, playing on the blades of grass between their bodies.

Potter smacked his shoulder playfully with a chuckle. “Prat. You make it sound like you care less than you actually do.”

“Are you gonna talk about it or not?” Draco sighed, not bothering to deny or affirm Potter’s assertion. It would have been disastrous if he did anything that would spur the argument, so Draco always made sure that his growing affections with Potter were never dwelt on longer than necessary. Which meant _never at all_.

Even Draco was too uncomfortable thinking about these things when he was alone. He had already put a name on the silly things he was feeling. He had been writing in his personal journal about Potter when he realized it: he had started caring about the Golden Boy. It was then that Draco swore that no one would ever know about it.

“Ron, ‘Mione, Ginny, and I had a fight,” Potter sighed exhaustedly. “I meant, we had a row. The three of them were against me. This is my life, you know? As much as I value them as my friends, I want to be able to do what I want to. And Merlin, Draco, they have no idea how much more I want to _do_.”

Draco’s breath hitched at the wistfulness in Potter’s tone. It was the first time that Potter spoke like that with him; it made _him_ feel wistful in turn. He wanted to hear that voice every day, directed at him, close to him. Again, he crushed those newly-introduced desires.

“They want me to stop visiting you, you know,” Potter continued softly. There was soft shuffling of clothes as he turned on his side to look at Draco. His eyes were so intense and green as they bore into Draco that he felt the heaviness of that stare against his skin. Or maybe, he was imagining it again. “But you’re my friend. They can’t stop me from going into company and society that make me happy.

“They said that I should be spending my time in more important things. Maybe there _are_ more important things, but that’s for me to decide.” A crease appears between Potter’s eyebrows as he starts plucking the grass between them. “It just made me so angry. They didn’t know how much you’ve changed, which explains why they don’t trust you. That didn’t excuse them from saying horrible things about you, though. And that made me _so_ angry.”

Draco snorted, ignoring the burning at the back of his eyes at realizing someone had stood for him against _heroes_. “I haven’t exactly acted like a good person towards them, Potter.”

“I know,” and Potter’s voice sounded pained. “But the war is over. I just hoped that they were willing to listen to me. I’m not so stupid as to jump into something I know would harm me.”

“Really, now,” Draco teased, knowing that jumping into potential harm was just the Potter way of doing things. Nature had decided that the man with messy hair and burning but kind green eyes should always dive heedlessly into trouble to save other people. It was what made Harry so _Harry_.

“Shut up, you. The first time I came here, I didn’t expect to be coming back, you know? But you were so changed and so hopeless after the war, it hurt for me. Vulnerable didn’t look good on Draco Malfoy, I decided, and I wanted to draw you out again from your shell,” he said. “But the more Draco Malfoy drew out of any kind of mask, I found that I wanted to be friends with this person.”

“Potter, I’m not your charity case,” Draco said exhaustedly. Potter’s admission was bittersweet. He could admit, though, that ever since spending time in the hero’s company, his thoughts were less self-deprecating. He was sure that he had enough light and hope inside of him that he could cast a Patronus if he tried.

“You’re not anyone’s charity case,” Potter reiterated, grinning. “You’re Draco. And everyone should know what kind of person you really are. Without the mask. Without having to hide behind the pretensions Lucius Malfoy built around you.”

“Just because we’re in a truce doesn’t mean I’d be nice and pretty in front of the rest of the population. Also,” he sighs heavily, “the world doesn’t work that way, Potter.”

“But you’ve still changed and you’re not much of a horrible person than you appeared to be,” Potter insisted. “You should send that letter, Draco. Just do it, please. Your mother will be happy if you’re following your dreams. _I_ will be happy because I believe that you’re not a coward and you can be anything you want. I’m willing to bet that Dumbledore will finally stop pretending to be asleep and smile at you from his portrait.” He took a deep breath. “I’m babbling, but everything’s true, Draco. You shouldn’t deny yourself of that chance.”

This time, Draco didn’t retort. This time, Draco didn’t contradict Potter because he was too stunned that the man cared about him. Potter as good as said that he believed in him, a Malfoy, the kid he had refused to be friends with seven years ago. He’s so stunned that he hadn’t processed that his head snapped up to look at Potter. His lips were parted in astonishment, his eyes were wide, and his cheeks were flushed.

He was staring at Potter. Why shouldn’t he? He was seriously wondering about _who_ was really the man beside him right now and what was he doing to Draco Malfoy? He’d accompanied Draco during afternoons, made Narcissa Malfoy smile, helped him find Potions ingredients, weeded in their garden, and encouraged him like this. Draco didn’t know what Potter was doing to him.

“Hey.” Potter grinned at him and lightly tapped the tip of Draco’s nose. It was affectionate, fond, cute, pleasant, and more than he could take. He couldn’t fight the blush, so he settled at scowling at Potter with everything he had.

The dark-haired man beside Draco just laughed, his voice filling the trees and being carried by the wind. Draco watched him from the corner of his eye, awestruck. Vaguely, he wondered when the moon would kiss the earth, because Harry Potter was his friend, and impossible things seemed to be happening in his life lately.

 ≈≈≈

People’s grief drove them to do insane things. It’s the only thing running in Draco’s mind as he stood beside his mother, gripping her slender, pale arm with all his might. He’s still pulling her towards himself—as close as he can—while glaring at the burly and arrogant Auror in front of him.

“Exile? What do you mean by exile?!” he said through gritted teeth. They couldn’t be serious, weren’t they? Hadn’t the Malfoys suffered enough? Hadn’t they paid their dues to the wizarding the world? “Haven’t we been cleared of all charges?”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy. But it has been decided by the Post-War Board that it is best if your mother leaves England for the next five years,” the Auror huffed. Draco didn’t even bother remembering his name.

“Best? For what?” Draco thought he knew, though. They fucking Post-War Board and the rest of the wizarding world thought that he hadn’t suffered enough. That he hadn’t lost enough—he’s lost everything, except his mother, upbringing, and heritage. Now, they were taking away from him what was most important.  “No. No, we’re against this. We have our fucking freedom and no one can compromise what the Wizengamot had ruled months ago.”

His heart was constricting. He knew his words would do nothing—he’s always, always been powerless. Nobody would change their mind for him. Nobody thought he deserved some security, stability, or happiness. They would always keep him, Draco Malfoy, in the dark and bottom.

However, he wouldn’t give his mother up without a fight. To death.

“No. We refuse,” he said, shaking his head. He felt his mother hold his shoulder. They were tearing the two of them apart. Draco couldn’t allow it. He absolutely wouldn’t.

“Well, it’s a pity, Mr. _Malfoy_ , but the Board is the highest ruling and decision-making body of our world as we transition to stability. They can’t be overruled or disobeyed,” the Auror sneered, leering as if Draco was scum. “Your mother has to come with us. Now.”

“Auror Burgunson, I ask for a few moments with my son—alone, please,” for the first time since the conversation started, Narcissa spoke. The Auror huffed, but he was no match for Draco’s mother’s icy stare. He left the room, slamming the door rudely behind him.

Narcissa turned to Draco, then, with eyes full of emotion. “They’re bent on making us suffer, Draco, but you shouldn’t let them destroy you. It’s only five years—“

“Mother, five years is beyond—much more beyond than what I can take!” Draco did his best to not sound hysterical, but he was losing an anchor. He was losing his life’s normalcy.

“If I don’t leave, they’ll make sure you suffer in other ways, love,” Narcissa whispered, running her fingers down the side of Draco’s face. “They can rid you of a future, or make you a slave, and I do not wish that on my only son.”

“Mother, what am I going to do without you? You can’t just let them order us around,” he whispered, defeated. He’s crying now, like a little child, in front of his _mom._ Draco felt lost and pathetic. He didn’t know what to do. They were all against them.

“Harry will help you,” she started, but stopped when Draco started shaking his head.

“We can’t always count on Harry, Mother. What we have with him is fragile at best,” he whispered, looking at his feet. Any day now, he knew that he was going to slip, commit a mistake, and he would lose Harry’s friendship forever. The Savior’s forgiveness and friendship was more than Draco could imagine; asking for his help was too much.

“I trust Harry, when it comes to you,” Narcissa said kindly. She pressed her lips against Draco’s forehead. “He is a hero, but he is also a kind, fair, and courageous man. He is a faithful friend, Draco.”

“We’re not his charity cases, Mother,” Draco insisted, gripping the front of her robes too tightly. He was sobbing now, afraid to let go.

“No, we’re much more,” Narcissa said with a smile, gathering her only son in her arms.

For the nth time—Draco has lost count—since the War started, Draco sobbed in his mother’s shoulders, feeling defeated, worthless, and alone. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what else he was supposed to live for.

≈≈≈

On the day that Narcissa had to leave for France, Harry was there to embrace her and hold Draco’s hand. He didn’t know what Harry had to talk with his mom behind closed doors, but he had no time to think about it that afternoon. Narcissa Malfoy was leaving the Manor—the place she got married and borne her only son.

“You’re always my strong one, Dragon,” she murmured against Draco’s hair, as she held him in his arms. “I’ll write to you every day. I expect you to do the same.”

Draco could only nod.

“Promise me you won’t forget about the lilies.”

Another nod.

Narcissa smiled at her son and his friend one last time before the paperweight on her hand started to glow, and she was whisked away by the Portkey.

Draco fell to his knees on the floor, the dam of tears breaking. He couldn’t _take_ it. Just when he thought things were looking up, they took his mother from him. It was ruthless, heartless, and cruel. It was the product of pure hatred, and Draco thought he’d rather be blind and deaf than be subject to it.

“Ssshhh.” Strong arms gathered him against a broad and strong chest. Calloused fingers started stroking his arms, and Draco had never experienced anything like it. He cried and cried and cried.

“Harry…”

“Dray, I’m here. Don’t worry. I’m here. You’re not alone,” Harry murmured.

He couldn’t believe anything right now. He just couldn’t.


	2. 1997, Part Two: Harry

**1997, PART TWO: Harry**

_September 1997_

If, seven years ago, someone would have told Harry that he would consider as precious the arrogant and high-sounding blonde who insulted his first friend, he would have thrown them into St. Mungo’s. Still, incredulity and surprise notwithstanding, Harry Potter had indeed started to care for Draco Malfoy in the past month he’s spent with the git, no matter how many people were against it.

Draco was… _Draco_ , and Harry was almost ecstatic to see the blonde without his masks. He was snarky, sarcastic, and scared to show his emotions, yes. He was more often than not self-deprecating, insecure, and defensive, but what had surprised Harry was that Malfoy’s capability of affection. Beneath the layers of indifference and aloofness that hid his true expressions, the Slytherin’s appreciation and care seeped through and manifested themselves in his small acts and small, hidden smiles. It was startling, but nonetheless a breath of fresh air.

The War had indeed changed all of them; Harry was still grateful that despite of what everything had happened, he had come to know his arch-rival-turned-friend as a person. He was beginning to understand Dumbledore’s need for and the need to give to persons second chances.

His friends, along with the rest of the wizarding world, had cringed at his choices for new friends, but Harry had fought them. He had grown up, and he had been instrumental in ending a war. It was no time in being close-minded and encouraging the same thinking that sparked rifts in the wizarding world. He had seen something good and light in the Malfoys, and he was giving friendship and regards to where they were due.

He had shared meals with the Malfoys, had smiled at Narcissa Malfoy’s dotingness, and had helped Draco in his potions and gardens. He had held a sobbing Draco against himself when Narcissa had been driven away by the Post-War Board. Harry couldn’t help but sometimes shock himself with how he’d gone in too deep with the Malfoys, but he ignored it. It was against other people’s expectations, he knew, but one of his friends needed him. If he had to be stubborn and strong for him, he would be.

He believed in this. He believed in second chances. He believed that though things are rocky, difficult, and uncomfortable, they were bound to unravel into something beautiful and strong one day.

≈≈≈

Even after a day spent attending Ministry functions and meetings that Shacklebolt, inexplicably, needed him in, Harry couldn’t dispel the heavy leaden feeling he seemed to carry in his chest everywhere. The parties were grand, jovial, bright, and filled with laughter, music, and good food. People wanted to dance and meet with Harry. They asked for his opinions on the reparations being made in Hogwarts and wizarding Britain. They waited on him, offered to refill his champagne flute, and praised how he’s looking well. They commented on articles that raved about him.

During those moments, Harry only waited for the time he could leave them politely. He hated all of it, actually. He honestly hated being in the center of the pretensions and attentions, when all he wanted was to bask in some normalcy, peace, and quietude. He used to find those in solitude; now, he also found them in Draco.

But being in Draco’s presence saddened Harry too. The Slytherin had been as distant and despondent as he’d been since his mother was taken away. Harry did his best to draw the blonde out of his shell, but he knew the pain of losing a parent—of losing Sirius—and all he’d been able to do for his new friend was give him time for his grief.

There was a slight touch in the middle of his brows, already creased without his knowing. Harry blinked and looked down at who had rubbed it. Ginny was giggling at him—her cheeks were flushed prettily, and her lips were closed on a pink Muggle straw in a glass of martini (Harry wasn’t sure.).

“You’re too serious, Mister. What are you thinking about?” Her words were slightly slurred. They had been at the party for almost a couple of hours, and Harry didn’t bother figuring out how many drinks she’s already had.

“Hey, Gin.” He gave her a small smile before sipping his flute of champagne, surveying the crowd. People were still coming in; the night was still young and starting, so to speak.

Ginny hummed and leaned against his side, her arms twining around his free one. She sighed and nuzzled his shoulder before saying, “What’s bothering you, Harry? You never talk to me, Ron, or ‘Mione anymore.”

“Nothing that should bother all of you, Gin.” _But everything that should bother me._ It’s a matter that, in fact, had kept Harry distracted from all his appointments and responsibilities as the _Savior_ for the past weeks. “How are you feeling about coming back to Hogwarts?” he asked, hoping to direct her attention to something else. He put an arm around her when she started swaying.

Ginny giggled again and answered, “I’m excited, of course. It’s just a shame that you’re not coming with us.” Ginny was like Harry, in a way; they never tried to talk about the end (or resumption) of their relationship whenever it was just the two of them. Harry knew, however, that Ginny talked about their romance to her friends and family when he was absent, adding fuel to the rumors around them. He didn’t blame her; Ginny was still young, and the attention directed at her should have been refreshing after spending most of her life under the shadow of her many older brothers.

Harry was aware he should clarify matters with her, but he couldn’t. He kept on telling himself he couldn’t do that to her _yet_ ; it was too soon after Fred’s death.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes, I’m scared that Malfoy is stealing you from me,” Ginny whispered, the fear still obvious in her voice. “From _us._ Your true friends. We’re the ones who stood by you first, Harry. How can you turn your backs from us, when we still need you? When the recovering world needs you? When _I_ need _you?_ ”

Harry didn’t know what to reply to that, but he opened his mouth anyway to defend his actions, the value he still held his friendships with the Weasleys, Hermione, and the others. However, Ginny beat him into it by laughing a little too loudly, a little too shrilly, and Harry could feel, more than hear, the pain she was trying to hide.

“I’ll see you around, Harry. Love you,” she said, walking away, slightly swaying. Harry watched her, unable to ignore the slight tightening in his throat. These days, the more that he talked to his friends about Draco, he couldn’t help but increasingly feel that he _was expected_ to make a fucking choice between his old friends and new ones.

Harry thought that it was unfair, because he couldn’t choose. He still loved Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and the others, but honestly, he couldn’t just walk away from Draco. The last thought was staggering when Harry first realized it; it was still shocking as much as it was inexplicable, but Harry couldn’t deny and stop it all the same.

In the few weeks he’s spent with Draco, he could no longer imagine ending whatever was between them so abruptly.

≈≈≈

“Draco?”

Harry shrugged out the black coat he’d been wearing at the party as he entered the Malfoy family library where Draco almost always spent his time drinking tea, writing, or reading. Only the embers at the furnace set the room with a dim, eerie glow, and the moon did the rest of illuminating by beaming down the tall windows of the large room. Harry set his coat on an armchair, and called out once more. There was no answer, and there was no sign of the blonde.

Harry went outside of the manor, because, of course, he would find Draco Malfoy sitting in the garden in a bright and clear night like this.

“Potter, you’ve lost your comprehension as well as your hearing, haven’t you? I’ve told you so many times that you don’t have to check on me every night,” Draco huffed exasperatedly, looking up at him from his book. His already long, platinum blonde hair was tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Sitting in a marble bench, surrounded by the flowers, and bathed in the moonlight, he took Harry’s breath away.

Harry didn’t say anything and just sat down beside Draco. He drew his feet up against his chest and rested his chin against his knees. His companion huffed in disapproval with his disregard with proper sitting posture, but Harry knew it was half-hearted. They had spent every night like this, either in the garden or the family library. Harry sitting beside Draco while the latter got on with whatever he was doing, ignoring the former for half of the time.

Harry didn’t mind. This was for him as much as it was for Draco, if he were honest. He also knew that any moment now, Draco would speak. He just had to wait.

Sure enough—

“I received another letter from my m-mom this afternoon,” Draco’s soft voice was carried by the wind, along the fragrant waft of jasmines and lilies. “She said that she’s starting to make friends with the other women in France. They’ve started some sort of embroidery and reading club. Probably wanting to ingrain some culture into the old women.” He chuckled lightly and fondly, with only a twinge of longing and pain.

Harry just nodded and smiled at the picture Draco’s story inspired in his mind; Narcissa Malfoy sitting in a circle of old ladies near a large window or in a garden that was nowhere near to the beauty of the ones in her home. The gardens and flowers that she was confident that her son was tending and studying for her. He didn’t speak, though; this was Draco’s moment, and Harry was content with just letting his friend’s voice be heard.

“She said that she’s starting with Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables in their reading list. Father hated that book. I imagine the Dark Lord did, too.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and Harry found himself leaning closer to the side to hear Draco. “They thought that it was such a display of weakness and waste of power.”

Harry’s hand itched to run his finger down Draco’s pale arm, to caress, to assure, and to care. He held himself back, and it surprised him how much power and effort it took to succeed.

“I disagree, though. Valjean did his second chance some justice, don’t you think, Harry?”

Draco’s silver eyes were focused on him now; it was the rare form of acknowledgement he received from the Slytherin these days. Some days, Harry forced himself to be satisfied with the stories from Narcissa’s letters, told through a toneless, lost voice, and Harry had to hope and believe that Draco hadn’t given up, that underneath the layers of masks and appearances, he’s still fighting. That Harry’s presence was still significant.

Tonight, though… tonight was different.

“I never read Les Miserables, I’m afraid,” he replied, laughing shakily. Draco’s tone was wistful and it made Harry feel nostalgic and regretful. He suddenly found himself wondering what could have happened if he and Draco were friends longer than just a month. How different would things be? Or would they still be like this?

“Hmm.” Draco just nodded and gave out a long, tired sigh, shaking his head. At the corner of his eye, Harry saw pearly tears gathering at Draco’s long lashes, glistening under the moonlight.

Harry had to choose between crushing the blonde against his chest and never letting go, or shaking Draco out of his grief so he can finally look at Harry and be himself again. In the end, he settled with sitting it out beside him.

≈≈≈

“I’ve actually noticed how dedicated you are with my nephew lately, Harry,” Andromeda said as she led him to a fairly-bright sitting room. Moving pictures of his daughter and husband dominated one of walls and bookcases. Newer pictures of Teddy and Harry also were harder to miss.

Harry, who had been coming over to Andromeda Tonks’ house to visit his godson Teddy, was familiar and comfortable enough to sit without being invited to do so. He’s just gone from another meeting with Head Auror Robards before he officially start his interne in the Auror Department next week. The meeting with the loud man, though unusually cheerful for his profession, was short and to-the-point but Harry still had difficulties in keeping his mind focused.

Instead of coming back to Grimmauld Place, where he had officially moved in, or visiting Hermione and Ron at the Burrow, Harry decided to visit his godson and Andy. It also didn’t hurt that they were practically the closest and last living relatives of Draco.

Two days had passed since he had sat with Draco in the garden under the moonlight, with the latter just crying silently over the sounds of crickets and whispers of fairies. He couldn’t get rid of the memory and the urge to do _something_ for Draco from his mind, and he finally accepted that he needed help. If the war had changed Draco, then what the Post-War Board had done to him and his mother seemed to have pulled him to a downward spiral.

“He doesn’t have anyone else to support him, Andy,” Harry said quietly as he accepted the delicate, porcelain teacup that was handed to him. He took a tiny sip of the Darjeeling, vaguely noticing that Andy served a different kind of tea whenever he visited.

The tall, slender woman who sat across him arched a dark, delicately trimmed eyebrow. There were times, like now, that Harry was shockingly reminded that she was a Black, and Bellatrix Lestrange’s and Narcissa Malfoy’s eldest sister as well. She was always frank, straightforward, and severe when the situation calls her to.

“Oh, Harry. So you do this out of pity for him then?” she asked nonchalantly. However, the weight she put on her question was clear on her eyes.

Only the tiny amount of self-consciousness held Harry back from spurting out the tea in his mouth. That Andromeda would suggest such a thing was… _no._ Harry felt like something large had awakened inside him, ready to express his indignation and defiance about the fact. “No! Andy, of course, I don’t do this because I pity him. Merlin, _no_.” The suggestion was still swirling distastefully and hatefully in his mind. Even the thought of someone else doing something good to Draco _just because_ of pity made him sick.

Draco was strong… Draco was _Draco._ He wasn’t to be pitied. _No_.

“Then what is it, then? Everyone is shocked and curious, Harry, that you, all of a sudden, would dedicate your time in caring for the son of a death eater, your former enemy. We honestly do not know what has come to you,” Andy said. However, the disapproval in her tone wasn’t directed at Harry. Weeks spent being taught about baby care by her had made Harry wiser on how her mind worked.

She was, Harry realized, harboring disapproval that people would question even his association with Draco. Moreover, she was _testing_ him.

Harry was more than ready to prove himself and not disappoint her.

“Draco’s my friend, Andy. I want to help him, because I know that he’s stronger than this. I… also promised to myself and to his mother that I’m gonna take care of him. It’s not just because people won’t do it. It’s because I want to, and I’ve seen a good and beautiful part of him that the wizarding world had already judged him to be without,” he explained slowly, relishing in the truth of his words, and not just Andy’s small smile. It felt good, speaking about Draco to someone who wasn’t listening just to convince him otherwise about his friend.

“Because he is your friend,” Andromeda echoed. Her eyebrows were raised, as if encouraging him to say more on the topic.

“Yeah.” Harry nodded as he nibbled on one of the chocolate, animal-shaped biscuits that his godson was so fond of. “Draco’s my friend. He’s listened to me quite a lot of times in the past weeks and we’ve had fun together. He’s my friend.”

“But you have your friends, too, Harry. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, the other Weasleys… Don’t you think they need you, too?” Andy asked gently.

Harry shook his head, thinking about Ron, Hermione, Ginny and the others. He cared for them, too. He loved them, for sure. But… “Draco’s different. I don’t know. He’s just different.”

“Different in what way, Harry?”

Harry looked at the mantelpiece on the wall behind Andy. There was a picture of Harry cradling a blonde Teddy in his arms. In what way _was_ Draco different? Draco acted like he didn’t care what Harry was going through, but the otherwise shone through his eyes. Draco was an affectionate and loving son to Narcissa, and he didn’t care to show that in front of Harry. Draco was capable of being afraid and self-deprecating, but he was also strong and brave when he fought for things he valued, like family. Draco, who discovered his love for taking care of plants, dreamt of growing his own potions ingredients and putting up an apothecary someday. Draco, who cried in Harry’s arms in the first few days after his mother’s departure and had suddenly turned quiet after…

“I don’t know, Andy. I don’t know,” he whispered, nowhere near able to articulate or put names on the feelings stirring up within him. They’d been there for a few weeks now, and he’d ignored them. Until now.

As if on cue, bells started ringing out of nowhere. Harry knew, however, that it was a charm that alerted Andy if Teddy was awake. Andy smiled at him fondly and said, “You better come up to him, now. Teddy wouldn’t be comforted by anyone other than you now that he’s picked up on your scent.”

Harry, eager to have some time with his godson and for the chance to get away from Andy’s questions, stood drank up the rest of his tea and stood up. As he was leaving the room, he thought he heard her chuckle and mutter something regarding being excited about something unfolding.

≈≈≈

_November 1997_

“How is Draco?” Hermione’s eyes betrayed the supposed care and concern in her question; they were calculating and distrusting as they surveyed Harry. She had been sitting on one of the newly-installed couches in Grimmauld Place’s sitting room when Harry stepped out of the Floo. For how long she’d been waiting for him, he had no idea.

He had just come back from a quick visit to the Manor; Draco was still tending his mother’s garden in the moonlight, his pale skin, white shirt, and flaxen hair made him look as if born in the stars. Harry bit in the fond smile at the memory of Draco singing under his breath and ordering him in a familiar snark to conjure water for his plants.

He filed the memories for later, though, because he had to focus on Hermione, one of his best friends, who was surely bent on telling Harry to stop his “nonsense.” She harbored the belief that Harry was having an identity crisis; now that his life’s purpose—defeating Voldemort—was fulfilled and the war was over, she thought that he needed to channel his Messianic complex somewhere. And Draco was that.

Harry was surprised that she was determined enough to go back and to overlook how much her theory angered him the last time.

“He’s getting better and better,” Harry said, charming the soot from his robes. “How’s the Eight Year life?”

Hermione, who had accepted the offer at Hogwarts to take her N.E.W.T.S., glared at him for trying to change the topic. “Everything’s fine. Before you ask, Ginny’s alright, too, though she misses you. You should write to her more often.”

Harry tried to ignore her accusatory glare. He couldn’t find a reason to write to Ginny. He had made it clear to her during one of her visits with Hermione from Hogwarts; he was no longer interested in getting back together with her. He wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship with anyone at all. He had made an effort in trying to explain it to her as nicely as possible. He should have known, though: his friends never took him for his word. They were still confident that he and Ginny would go back to each other.

Harry sat beside Hermione, who quickly clasped his hand between hers. He looked at her warm brown eyes and appreciated that she was being there for him. It was just getting too much.

“Hermione, if you’re here with another argument why I should stay away from Draco…”

“Harry, just listen to us, please? We care for you,” she said, sounding close to tears, which surprised Harry. “It’s just hard, you know? We need you to be the old Harry—strong, brave, and _always there_ —especially now that our world is in such an insecure and unstable state. We expect you to accept positions at the Ministry, or even the invitation at Hogwarts, and be there for us, for Ginny… but _no_. You have to be interested in Malfoy, all of a sudden. Malfoy, who had bullied you for the past seven years. Malfoy, who never lifted a finger at the war. Malfoy, who can never know about the suffering and hardship—“

“Draco suffered, too, ‘Mione,” Harry said, standing up, forcing Hermione to let go of his hand. He glared at the carpet, feeling the potent injustice and unfairness that they have treated the Draco and Narcissa with. The war was _over,_ for fuck’s sake. “We all suffered—we all had sufferers from both sides of the war, ‘Mione. How many times do we have to go over Draco’s case? Do I have to repeat in front of you my defense of him during the trials? Really, ‘Mione? Here? Now?”

It seemed that every fiber in his being was poised to protect and defend Draco. He didn’t know where this deep empathy, compassion, or _connection_ with the Slytherin came from. Harry just knew that he wasn’t about to let it go.

When his eyes fell on Hermione again, there were tear tracks on her cheeks. Her hand was over her mouth. “It’s just… we can’t help but feel that we’re losing you, Harry. We don’t want that to happen. We need you, too.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“You’re not… I’m not…” Harry growled in frustration as he pulled on his hair. He closed his eyes, counted to three, and took a deep breath. He knelt before Hermione and took both of her hands in his. “You’re not losing me. I’m still here, aren’t I? And it’s not like I stopped spending time with you guys. It just frustrates me that you have to make this seem like a choice between _you_ and _Draco_. I’ve changed, ‘Mione. We’ve all changed. We’re all building our own lives to some extent.” _We’re also finding more reasons to live for and ways to live._

Hermione threw her arms around him, and Harry caught her. They sat on the floor, holding each other, for some time before she laughed shakily. “I’d been pathetic, haven’t I?” she mumbled against his robes.

Harry returned her laugh. “Not really. I just think that the stress from all the N.E.W.T.S. subjects you’re taking is making you feel different stuff,” he teased.

“I’m still uncomfortable about Draco Malfoy, though,” Hermione said quietly, turning serious again. She held her hand up sharply when Harry opened his mouth to reply. “But… but if you know what you’re doing and he really _is_ important to you—only Merlin knows why—then _I’ll_ respect that. I just want what’s best for you, Harry.”

“That’s all I ask, ‘Mione. That you understand.” Harry smiled at her, knowing all this time that Hermione would come around.

“And, Harry, I really think that you should give your relationship with Ginny another chance.”

Harry could barely hold back a groan. He rolled his eyes instead. “Sorry, ‘Mione. I’ve thought it through. I don’t want a relationship right now, _and_ Ginny’s like my sister to me. Nothing more.”

“Is Draco already like your brother then?” Hermione shot out of the blue.

Harry, horrified, stopped himself from verbalizing his mind’s resounding _No, of course not!_ Instead he cleared his throat, and said, “At this point, he’s precious to me like you all are.”

Thinking that Hermione’s questions were getting more dangerous and he had to escape, Harry stood up and told his friend that he would be preparing dinner for the two of them.

≈≈≈

_December 1997_

Harry wanted to comfort Draco; that’s why he’s so frustrated with himself. He couldn’t do or say anything else than hush him and rub his shoulders slightly as the blonde, face buried on the sheets, just cried silently. They had been in this position: Draco sprawled in his bed and Harry perched at the edge, feeling lost about the situation, disappointed with himself, and saddened for Draco.

The blonde had just received the Post-War Board’s rejection for his request to join his mother in France for Christmas. The day Draco had written the letter, he had been the most determined and lively that Harry had seen him since Narcissa left—he had looked forward to the couple of days that he could spend with his mother. Harry couldn’t help not hoping along with him. Though he was aware that the Post-War Board consisted of old wizards that Harry perceived as powerful and prejudiced, he had hoped that they won’t deny a son a request to spend Yule with his mother.

He was wrong apparently.

Harry could barely contain the rage within him.

“Dray… Draco, can you look at me, now?” he asked, when his friend’s breaths had steadied somewhat and the sobs had turned into occasional, soft sniffles. Harry _ached_ at seeing Draco Malfoy, former snarky, git, the high and mighty Slytherin Prince, like this. He wanted to help, to make things better, and see Draco back to himself again, but he didn’t know _how_.

“Harry, just leave me alone, please,” was the soft reply. Harry ignored it. He won’t let Draco be alone in this. No. Just _no_.

“I won’t do that, Dray,” Harry replied softly. If Harry wouldn’t lie to himself, he would also admit later that the words were said in tenderness, gentleness, and pained affection. He had stood, sat, and worked by Draco Malfoy’s side for the past four months now; they had grown so close—for Harry, at least—and he thought that nothing would really drive him away from Draco.

“Potter!” Draco snapped, sitting up so quickly and glaring at him with intense, stormy, grey eyes. His cheeks and his lashes were still glistening with tears, and Harry steeled himself from the urge to brush them away. “ _Potter_ , why are you still here? Are you still hoping that you– you can _save_ me? That you can redeem Draco Malfoy, the poor Death Eater?

“Can’t you see, Potter? I’m irredeemable. I’m in this downward spiral—emotionally, mentally, physically. When your people thought that it wasn’t enough to take away from me everything I had—status, my heritage, my _fucking_ _name_ —they take away my family. Now… now, you’re taking away my _dignity_. I’m losing the last shreds of self-respect that I still have because I have been reduced to the dignity of a _flobberworm_ and the _Savior wants to save me_. The stupid, perfect, worshiped, _fucking Savior_ thinks that I’m gonna be his next m- miracle,” Draco sneered, his face the most painful thing that Harry had seen, with his derisive expression, tears streaming down his face, and hopeless, _resigned_ , eyes.

Harry’s patience and self-control snapped, and he lunged at Draco, pushing the blonde back on the bed and caging him in his arms.

“Listen to me, _Draco_ , how many times do I have to tell you? I don’t do this for fame or anything at all,” Harry said through gritted teeth, looking down Draco’s face, whose eyes were shut and whose lips were trembling. “I do this because. I. Want. To.” He punched his fist on the mattress to punctuate every word.

Draco was shaking his head. He made no attempt to shake Harry off. Instead, he turned his face away, eyes still shut, and said, “I’m not your charity case, Potter. I’m not.”

“No,” Harry said gently, touching the tips of Draco’s hair slightly, feeling an inexplicable longing and swooping sensation in his stomach. “You’re not my charity case, Draco. You’re my friend.”

“The wizarding world thinks it’s a joke. I’m destined to be alone forever, Harry.”

He shook his head. “Open your eyes, Draco,” he whispered.

Draco visibly swallowed before slowly opening his eyes for Harry. His eyes really were like molten mercury and stardust; Harry didn’t know if this was because of Malfoy genes, or was just because it’s Draco—the _Draco_  behind the masks, the open, feeling, fearful, hopeful, and honest boy that he truly was. The boy that Harry couldn’t deny that he wanted to mature and grow up faster and be stronger for, no matter how unusual a desire that was.

“You’re not alone, Draco. I’m here, aren’t I? Your mother stands by you too, even if she’s in another country, she’s always with you,” Harry said sincerely. His mind is filled with the images of his mother, father, Sirius, and Remus at the forest, promising him that they would stand by him forever and that he won’t be alone. As he looked down at Draco, he felt a lump in his throat.

“You’re loved, Draco. You mean something to us. Don’t give up, yeah?” he asked, steeling himself once again from brushing the tip of his nose to Draco’s. It was starting to dawn on him how intimate their position was, with him on all fours, trapping Draco between arms and knees.

Draco had turned his face away from him once more, but Harry saw that his cheeks were pink. He removed himself from the blonde, then, falling on his side, so he was facing Draco now. He was reminded that they often lied down like this on the grass many months ago, at the forest.

“Stupid, hardheaded, persistent Gryffindors,” Draco muttered annoyingly, and Harry chuckled. The former glared. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.” Harry offered a small smile. Even though it wasn’t returned, he didn’t mind.

“I’m gonna be alone for Christmas,” Draco said so quietly that Harry was sure that if he had breathed, he wouldn’t have heard him.

“No, you won’t be,” Harry insisted; because he wasn’t able to hold himself back anymore, he grasped Draco’s arm, pulling him slightly closer to him. “You’ll be spending your Christmas with me.”

“With you, Harry?” Draco asked, his tone disbelieving.

Harry blushed. “Not _just_ me, actually. I plan to spend Christmas with Teddy and Andromeda this year and—no, wait,” he said, when Draco started to pull away from him. “Andy really wants you to be there, Dray. She’d wanted to meet you for a long time now, but didn’t know when the right time to send an invitation was.”

Harry brushed his thumb against the crease between Draco’s eyebrows; it was becoming a habit for him. “Stop being so pessimistic. Andromeda… she’s lost a lot of her family during the War, and she didn’t want the War to keep her from reuniting with what was left of her blood relations. She feels about family the way you do, Draco. Trust me on this.”

He still looked a little doubtful, but Harry was pleased to see that the tension in his shoulders had eased substantially. “Who’s Teddy?”

“He’s my godson,” Harry answered, unable to keep the fondness from his tone. He couldn’t help it; Teddy was one of the reasons that Harry was able to heal from the War and find the will to keep moving forward again. “He’s your cousin Nymphadora and Remus’ son. He’s barely a year old, but can be quite a handful. You’re gonna love him, I think. He can already speak—small words, yeah, but that’s something, right? I keep telling the Weasleys that, but they just laugh at me. Still, Teddy’s my cub—“

“Potter, you call your godson your _cub?_ ” Draco asked, sounding affronted.

Harry blushed. “It’s grown on me, I guess. Sirius and Remus used to call me pup or cub, you know.” He felt the familiar twinge in his chest—in the places where Sirius, his parents, and Remus belonged.

Something akin to understanding dawned on Draco’s eyes. “Okay,” the blonde just said gently.

Harry smiled at him and said, feeling more talkative about his new family than he’d ever been since the War, “Well, Teddy _is_ my pup. I can’t help but feel like that, especially since he’s so possessive, you know? He won’t let anyone, even Andy, hold him whenever he knows I’m at the house. I’m sure that he’s gonna like you too, Dray, when you meet him. He likes his applesauce a little too much, and he fusses a lot whenever I fail to bring him one on my visits—cheeky little kid, despite being still so young—“

“Harry, okay, he sounds like a very lovely baby,” Draco cut him off, fondness and amusement dancing in his eyes, and Harry was so happy to see them that he could have sang or kissed Draco. “I’m– I’m looking forward to meeting your family this Christmas.”

“Yeah, me too,” was all he could reply.

≈≈≈

Harry didn’t know what to give Draco for Christmas. He thought that it was supposed to be easier now that he knew that the Slytherin was actually not an arrogant git who flaunted to the whole of Hogwarts that he _had everything_. Last week, he’d realized that Draco believed that he’d lost everything since the War. It hurt, to be honest, to see the blonde feeling so alone.

Harry wanted to prove him wrong. Harry wanted to prove to Draco that it was _not_ the end.

Walking down muggle London, looking for a gift, Harry knew what he would be getting one snarky blonde for Christmas.

_You haven’t lost everything, Draco. You’ve gained another beginning. This isn’t the end for you._

≈≈≈

“You look awfully excited for Christmas, Harry,” said Molly Weasley, as she set a great, steaming mug of chocolate and marshmallows in front of Harry. They are sitting at the Burrow’s kitchen; Harry had dropped by to visit the Weasley matron, as he always did during Thursdays. That was when she was alone for most of the night. All her sons had moved out and Ginny was at Hogwarts; Arthur is busy with the rebuilding and reorganizing being done in the Ministry.

Harry always made sure that she wouldn’t be left on herself too much. It was an unspoken agreement between him and Bill, Charlie, and Ron. The War had exhausted Mrs. Weasley emotionally greatly.

As she sits beside him, she wears a small smile, despite the creases and weariness that old age and war had etched on her face. Her eyes are tired, and Harry feels like _she’s_ the one doing something for him, instead of the other way around. Molly never failed to astound him with the way she treated him.

“I am honestly looking forward for this year’s Christmas, Molly,” he replies quietly, not knowing whether it would be insensitive. She wasn’t quite over Fred’s death yet; really, what mother would?

To his surprise, Molly wrapped her hand around his wrist. “That’s good, Harry. It’s a Christmas without any Dark Lord or attack or worry for you, isn’t it? It’s been long due for you on your part.”

“Yeah.”

“However, I think this good mood has a lot to do with your new friend, isn’t it?” Molly said with a small, knowing smile at him.

Harry felt heat in his cheeks and he took a sip on his large mug to hide it. He was surprised, really; Molly was one of the last persons he’d expected to take his friendship with Draco in a good, approving light. That was one of the reasons why he hadn’t talked to her about Draco at all in his past visits.

“Well…” He cleared his throat, his ability to form replies seemingly thrown out of the window, to the chickens.

“It feels good to be taking care of someone, right, Harry?” she said, her thumb stroking the back of his hand twice, before withdrawing. Her voice was sorrowful and dreamy, as if she wasn’t really there in the kitchen with him. Harry knew then that she was thinking of Fred. “You’ve lost so many people in your life; I’m glad you’re finding new ones, Harry dear.”

“Molly, you know you still have me and your children and Arthur and Hermione, right?” Harry asked softly, looking at her face, which was turned to the window, to the pitch-black sky. There was no snow tonight.

“Of course, Harry dear. I’m happy that I have all of you,” she replies. “If there’s one thing I can say to you about your friendship with the young Malfoy, it’s to not waste any moment you have with them. Don’t believe in ‘somedays’ when it comes to people you consider important, Harry.

“I used to think that someday, after the war, I will tell Fred that I am _so_ proud of them, even if they’d never finished their schooling. Someday, I will hold a proper party for all of us, where there are fireworks and Firewhiskey. But somedays do not come.”

She stands up and takes the empty mug from Harry’s hands. She presses her lips on his forehead. “I’m happy for you, Harry,” she said.

Harry couldn’t explain the tightness he had been feeling in his chest.

≈≈≈

Three days before Christmas, Harry came back to Andy’s house after Auror training. He’d started staying there a week before to help with the preparations and taking care of Teddy. Also, it made Draco comfortable; Harry had been able to convince him to move out of the Manor for a while, if it was just to have company during the holidays.

It had been a very tiring day at the Ministry. At least, as a trainee, he wouldn’t have to go back on duty until after the New Year’s. It was just after six, and Andy was out Christmas shopping with Molly. He expected the house to be quiet, except for the Muggle vintage music that Draco seemed to be so enamored with the first time Harry had shown it to him.

He was surprised to the sight that met him at the sitting room: Draco, sitting cross-legged on the thick rug, laughing and clapping his hands to encourage Teddy, who was on all-fours, to crawl towards him. Harry’s heart seemed to be doing two things at once: beating wildly in his chest and melting at the same time. Suddenly weak in the knees and incapable of announcing his presence and disrupting the scene in front of him, he leaned against the door frame, watching.

“Come here, Teddy, you can do it,” Draco said happily, stretching his hands towards the toddler, who was gurgling cutely at him. It was the happiest that Harry had seen Draco since the end of the war, and he didn’t want it to fade quickly.

“Harry and Aunt Andromeda would be happy to see you crawling already!” Draco cooed. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were alight with excitement.

Teddy made another a set of baby sounds, and started moving his hands. However, he stopped and his nose twitched cutely. His hair turned into black and his eyes into a brilliant green before he started crawling in Harry’s direction.

“Da!” Teddy, to Harry’s surprise, screamed happily at him. The raven-haired toddler sat back and lifted his arms to Harry, who was stunned but unable to refuse his godson. He lifted Teddy in his arms and pressed a kiss on the top of his head.

Draco, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, was grinning at him.

“Well, so much for the surprise,” he shrugged. He reached up and rubbed Teddy’s feet briefly. The toddler squirmed against Harry’s shoulder in protest.

“ _Daaaaa_ ,” he whined, rubbing his face against Harry’s neck.

“You were teaching him to crawl,” Harry said, unable to form words. His heart was full, and he had no _way_ to articulate it. He had no way to ease the emotions in his pounding chest.

“Nope, not teaching, Potter. I was just helping him practice,” drawled Draco, standing up and brushing imaginary dust from his dark Muggle jeans. “My nephew is one smart boy, aren’t you Teddy?”

Teddy replied in gurgly, baby-nese, and Draco nodded, as if he understood. “Yeah, Harry here is just shocked at you, huh? You’re a disappointment, Potter.”

“What?” It seemed that even Harry’s brain also failed to function. It was currently fixated on the ruffled and fond look on Draco; he was finding that he really liked it.

“Your uncle seemed to have dimmed more during his Auror training, Teddy,” the blonde said, still talking to the baby. “What a pleasant discovery.”

 _“Daaaaaaa! Da!”_ Teddy replied, his arms tightening around Harry’s neck. To Harry’s amusement, he was glaring at Draco.

The latter sighed. “So loyal. You’re really a Hufflepuff, aren’t you, you little pup?” There was no snark or derision in it, though. Just fondness and affection.

“Still cat got your tongue, Potter?” Draco smirked. “I’m gonna make you some tea; might be good for your brains, hmm?”

He left, and Harry looked at green eyes identical to his. “You’re good for Draco, aren’t you, buddy?” he chuckled softly, touching the tip of his nose on Teddy’s.

“Daaaay,” Teddy replied, swatting Harry’s nose.

“Yeah, Teddy. I think he’s good for us, too, hmm?” Harry replied. He thought of how happy Draco looked a while ago, and how happy and _full_ it made him in just seeing it.

If only Harry was any wiser, he should have realized that what he was feeling were butterflies in his stomach. If the Boy-Who-Lived was a little knowledgeable about love, he should have realized that Draco Malfoy was easily becoming one of the people who made him very, _very_ happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my readers in [Nowhere is Safe](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3362630/chapters/7354577), I'm not able to update yet, because I lost my file weeks ago, and I'm trying to rebuild the chapters I've written. Also, I've been busier these days because of school and internship. I'm not abandoning my works, though.
> 
> Thank you for all of you who are supporting this and NIS! :)


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